Деница Минчева

→Now, squatting on the floor beside Huxley’s cold body with the polishing handkerchief in his fingers, motionless, he stared at the house, the walls, the furniture about him, his eyes widening, his mouth dropping, stunned by what he realised and what he saw. He shut his eyes, dropped his head, crushed the handkerchief between his hands, wadding it, biting his lips with his teeth, pulling in on himself.

→He had _touched_ the books and the library table and touched the burgundy bottle and burgundy glasses.

→“I didn’t come to see books, I –”

→“Some interesting first editions there, Acton. _Feel_ this binding. Feel of it.”

→Yes, fetch it. _Handle_ it. _Touch_ it. He did.

→“There’s a bottle of burgundy, Acton. Mind fetching it from that cabinet?”

→“I need one. I can’t believe Lily is gone, that she –”

→“Drink?”

→Acton had _touched_ the library door.

→“Do you think I’d tell you, really? Don’t stand out there, you idiot. If you want to talk business, come in. Through that door. There. Into the library.”

→“Where’s my wife, Huxley?”

→“Oh!” Huxley shocked. “It’s _you_, Acton.”

→Finger on Huxley’s doorbell. Huxley’s door opening.

→There was a moment when he saw the entire house, the mirrored halls, the carved doors, the splendid furniture; and, as clearly as if it were being repeated word for word, he heard Huxley talking and himself just the way they had talked only an hour ago.

→He stopped.

→He looked at the throat. He looked at the polished floor. He bent slowly and gave the floor a few dabs with the handkerchief, then he scowled and swabbed the floor; first, near the head of the corpse; secondly, near the arms. Then he polished the floor all around the body. He polished the floor one yard from the body on all sides. Then he polished the floor two yards from the body on all sides. Then he polished the floor three yards from the body in all directions. Then he –

→He knelt by Huxley’s body, took a handkerchief from Huxley’s pocket, and began methodically to swab Huxley’s throat with it. He brushed and massaged the throat and wiped the face and the back of the neck with fierce energy. Then he stood up.

→The clock ticked upon the mantel.

→It was not the hands as hands he was interested in, nor the fingers as fingers. In the numb timelessness after an accomplished violence he found interest only in the _tips_ of his fingers.

→They were ordinary hands. Not thick, not thin, not long, not short, not hairy, not naked, not manicured and yet not dirty, not soft and yet not callused, not wrinkled and yet not smooth; not murdering hands at all – and yet not innocent. He seemed to find them miracles to look upon.